


Yet Ours Was Not Meant for Happiness

by Fumm95



Series: Morning Glory (Jace Malcom & Satele Shan) [10]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Angst, Childbirth, Death in Childbirth, F/M, SWTOR AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 02:49:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6312409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fumm95/pseuds/Fumm95
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She's not going to make it."</p>
<p>AU where Satele dies giving birth to Theron.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yet Ours Was Not Meant for Happiness

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I regret all of my life choices. Going to point you all to [Barber's Adagio for Strings](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CcflwUYYoXk) again for the mood music.
> 
> Marked unfinished for now because I am toying with the idea of writing a scene from Jace's perspective when he finds out. Because apparently this wasn't enough angst.

She’s not going to make it.

Satele knows it the first moment she hears the Siren call from the Force, the first time she feels the thrum of recognition from a planet she has never before seen, but can immediately identify. She knows it when she sets eyes on the outcropping of rock by the cliff which had served as an old dwelling, which Tasiele had described with enough detail for her to recognize immediately, even decades later.

She knows it from the pain, sharp and throbbing and never ending, and the blood - _so much blood_. It pools around her, warm and sticky and _too much_.

She knows it from the look on Master Zho’s face, knows the solemn expression that he wears when talking to the mortally wounded, knows the mask that means he is not going to break, will not let himself break.

“It’s a boy, Satele.” His voice is _wrong_ , too quiet and broken or maybe it’s the darkness that seems to make everything go quiet, that has been creeping at the edges of her vision. Only it _has_ to be because she has to be imagining the tear tracks glinting on his cheeks, the naked pain in his eyes as he approaches, carrying a small bundle, which he carefully places into her weakening arms, supporting the weight when she falters.

And she cannot hide the tears in her own eyes as she looks down at the child, so small but already warm, _strong_ , in her limp arms. Dark eyes open for a brief moment and she sees _his_ eyes, eyes that she will never see again.

He doesn’t even know. He doesn’t know what will become of her, doesn’t know that she holds _their_ son, doesn’t know that she will soon become one with the Force, leaving behind a child that won’t know his mother, to be taken in by the Jedi _again_.

If she does not tell Master Zho, then _nobody_ will know. Not the Jedi, not Jace. Not her - their - son.

“What will you name him?” Master Zho’s voice is coming from farther away now, and she has to strain to understand him, but she refuses to give up the child as strong arms reach for him. _Not yet. Please not yet._

She stares at the baby, quiet, curling against her, warm and solid in her grasp. “Theron.” A strong name, like his father’s.

A father who doesn’t know about his son. Who _needs_ to know his son.

Master Zho bows his head as he takes Theron from her, though she can still see, can still sense, his anguish and she cannot stop him but she still tries, clinging to her master’s arm with strength born of desperation.

“Satele?”

Words have never been harder to form but she forces them out. “Jace Malcom.” She can’t tell if he hears her, can’t even see his face clearly, but he has to know. “Take him to Jace. _Please._ ”

She has to be imagining the break in his voice. “I will, Satele. Rest now.”

And as the world fades into darkness, she can only cling to the fact that he will know and hope that maybe, they will both someday understand.


End file.
